


Insatiate #12

by voleuse



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-21
Updated: 2006-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 06:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Whatever happens, this is.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Insatiate #12

**Author's Note:**

> Set after 2.10. Title and summary adapted from Adrienne Rich's _The Floating Poem, Unnumbered_.

Ronon smiles at her from across the room, and Teyla doesn't quite shiver. She trains her gaze away from him, but she still catches the direction he tilts his head, the quick quirk at the corner of his mouth.

She raises her chin, compresses her lips into a thin line. _Not now_. At that, Ronon leans back in his chair. Under the table, she watches his knees shift wider, and suppresses the urge to mirror him.

When the briefing ends, Teyla lets out a long breath. She meets Ronon's gaze, and at his smile, she walks in the opposite direction of his nod.

*

 

While Aiden held them, this was a distraction from their captivity. Like the child's game of pursuit, except escape is merely a challenge, not the goal. She always let Ronon catch up with her, in the end.

Teyla snakes through the corridors of Atlantis, to the lesser-explored quadrants where the scientists rarely go. The lights are dimmer, though the air is clean. Occasionally, a door will whir open to reveal the restless sea.

She lets him glimpse her, or vice versa, in odd minutes and fleeting glances. She runs, and climbs, and slides down ladders, failsafes in case the transporters malfunction. Sweat trickles down the curve of her spine, and strands of hair plaster against her neck.

She travels to the very edge of Atlantis, and when she reaches the final railing, she bends her body over it, panting. She closes her eyes and counts. _...nine, ten, eleven--_

On twelve, Ronon's hands encircle her waist, trail up her stomach in circles. She straightens, presses her hips back against his. He smells like salt and leather, and a lock of his hair tickles her collarbone.

"Caught you," he murmurs, a low vibration against her back. "What do I win?"

Teyla smiles at the sea, and shows him.


End file.
